Spontaneous Interactions
by GGE
Summary: Sherlock asks Moriarty an important question. It doesn't catch him off guard. Then comes the next case.  Mid-/post-TGG, Rating may increase, not past T.
1. Chapter 1

He stared at the pink phone. Moriarty would expect him to lie low for the time being. It's stupid to stick your neck out the door when the axe murderer just introduced himself.

However, it is unlikely that said murderer would be expecting a barrage of non-sequitur questions. Or a single question from whose answer he could deduce many things. No point asking _unnecessary_ questions.

How could he ask a question if his subject left no number or address? Any public request of such information would immediately filter back to Mycroft. For that, he may as well ask his ubiquitous brother directly. Next option, then.

Actually, his murderer would be expecting something. Being so interesting must elicit some response from his future victim, but the form it would take could be anything. A rooftop declaration of love could be attention-grabbing, if not gaudy. Obviously Moriarty would see through it, and probably have him shot on the spot for failing to create a better plan.

There remained the obvious: just ask. Post a message on his website, wait not so patiently for the reply, go from there.

As it was, he was beginning to falter. He glanced at the clock.

**1:32 PM.** Post-meridiem, after the midpoint of the day. He groaned at this useless information. Two hours and thirty-eight minutes until John was expected to arrive home. Thirty-seven. Of course, there was always tomorrow, or after his flatmate was asleep. No, more manageable to have data sooner. More time to deliberate.

Now then, how to phrase it? Straight and functional always worked before.

Then again, John had been telling him that juvenile expression, "More flies are caught with honey than with vinegar," quite a lot lately in an attempt to encourage using polite manners more often. Irritating _and_ idiotic. He'd been complaining about flies buzzing around a piece of corpse on the kitchen table, so he tested that very adage. Honey doesn't catch any flies whatsoever. Not that it proved anything about how his behaviour affected other people's propensity to tell him what he wanted to know.

How did he get from murderers to flies? He shook himself. Maybe it might be time for another long weekend gathering data from the field. John's effects on his thought patterns were not helpful.

He uncurled himself from the lounge, a herculean effort for someone less flexible. He looked around and crossed the room to pick up the laptop. Scuffed at the side, several years old. John's. He won't mind. Its ancient BIOS growled slowly into life. Waiting; bored now.

"Ahh," he said quietly as the desktop and various icons appeared, finally. If he was in a better mood later, he might just ask his brother to acquire a new laptop, more efficient than John's current model, for him. Might. A few swift clicks rattled on the keyboard.

"How do you contact a phone's previous owner," he typed, "without knowing their new number or address?" It would baffle his regulars, especially the Yard. Why would Sherlock Holmes not know how to find someone's contact details? Who was he trying to contact?

It was exactly eight seconds from posting the message to receiving a blip via the not-yet-confiscated phone. He'd counted. A notice flashed on the screen to alert him of a new unread text message.

"I'm very flattered. Why the sudden enthusiasm? I have the feeling there's something exciting you want to say... Call me ;)

Xoxo M"

Better than he'd planned. He called the number from which the text had been sent. It didn't get a chance to ring.

"Hello!" A cheery, Irish voice called from the other end. "My, my, I've captured the attention of the great Sherlock Holmes!" His intonation flickered up and down, seemingly with every syllable. "I told you to wait for my move, deary. Otherwise, you're cheating..."

"Moriarty," he began. "I have a question for you. Oh, and I'm pausing the game for a moment."

"Are you now?" His voice contained a hint of malice.

"Effectively. Think of it as a toilet break."

"I'm listening," now mildly amused.

"This is hard for me to ask... Quite a personal question, I'm sure everyone has their reasons for whatever they choose." He paused and waited for anything could use. Straining his ears, he heard nothing but silence on the other end. "Moriarty. What is your favourite song? Doesn't have to be mod—"

"Poker face, sung by Lady Gaga." Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Radio 1 live lounge version. Love her to bits, really." The consulting detective sat stunned, processing this new information. He almost missed the soft chuckle emanating from what seemed like far away. "Is that it, Sherly? My favourite food is linguine with tuna and parmesan, too, if you're planning a date." With two tongue clicks, he said, "Hello? I'm not talking to myself here!"

Sherlock cleared his throat surreptitiously and answered, "No, that's it. Thanks. I'll be on the lookout for the next case."

The disembodied voice finished with, "Good. Best be on your toes! Next one's _interesting_. Though no clues... You'll just have to wait, you naughty boy." Somehow, the statement felt like it should be followed by an obvious wink. "Unpausing, now." The phone emitted a loud click and dial tone.

Sherlock turned the phone off. **1:46 PM**. Two hours and fourteen minutes to think about his most recent excursion into the mind of a madman. Not that there was anything wrong with Lady Gaga. He'd only come across the pop star when a particularly repressed serial killer enjoyed flaunting his work next to or under lyrics from her songs, dressing his victims in some of her more audacious outfits from the music videos.

Wait a minute... A glaring observation hit him like a freight train. He was more than a little surprised.

Moriarty listened to Radio 1?


	2. Chapter 2

John stomped into the room several hours later. Sherlock, still deep in thought, glanced across at him. He appeared to be very angry. Not the explosive kind, he was very used to that by now. It's what resulted from loudly detailing a stranger's life history on the street. Explosive anger sometimes spilled over into violence and he was well used to that, too.

No, this was silent, permeating the air with unspoken resolve. Clearly, John had been brooding over this for most of the day and come to a conclusion. He'd left for work perfectly content earlier that morning.

Ahh, yes. It would be due to his message to Moriarty. Cue specious argument about Sherlock's immediate safety.

"Sherlock," John began, clearing his throat.

"Yes?" Diffusing the situation quickly was his best chance, but he had to allow John to vent.

"Having already deduced what I'm angry about, why don't you explain to me - in small words so that I understand - what the bloody hell you think you're playing at?" Even at the end of the question, he didn't raise his voice.

"In order to gather more data and from which ascertain specific details which could become useful later, it was necessary to obtain more information about Moriarty than we already had. It's impossible to do this without contacting him."

"You couldn't just wait for me? Or, I don't know, let the police do their jobs for once?"He glared at Sherlock, doing his best to imitate that piercing 'I know all your secrets' gaze. For his part, it mostly worked.

"No. Since we don't know when he will make his next move, we need to act now and know as much about him as possible, to better predict his movements or potential reactions."

John walked closer and leant on the sofa's arm, continuing to stare at him. In disbelief? "You can't keep doing this; it's not fair. How can I help you when you won't tell me what's going on?" It would be a Bad Idea to interrupt him now, even though he wanted to point out that John knew what was going on. Obviously, otherwise he wouldn't be angry. "It was an idiotic, selfish, dangerous, overconfident thing to do. You have willingly opened yourself up, again, to that mad man's antics and even invited it. You _chose_ to engage his attention and remind him of your existence. I suppose you didn't say anything too stupid or provocative or else you wouldn't even be here for me to yell at you!" He grew louder as time went on until he was shouting, but then he stopped and resumed at normal conversational volume. "You can't expect me to know what going on in that head of yours if the first I hear about your plans is through your bloody website."

"Fine." Sherlock paused, trying to put together his sentence in the least offensive way possible. "I'm going to contact him again."

Surprisingly, the most he did was raise an eyebrow. "Going to? You weren't going to ask me about it, or how I might feel."It wasn't a question.

"How do you feel?"

"I feel like I'm looking after a suicidal, stroppy teenager!"

Ignoring the fact that Sherlock knew more ways to kill someone than John did how to save and, if he'd been so inclined, could've killed himself in childhood easily, he waited for a moment. "I'm not stroppy." John looked like he was about to pop. "But – and this is important – I recognize that you are upset, and I am sorry for that."

"But not for contacting him in the first place; without telling me?" His mood had gradually changed from angry to disappointed. Somehow, Sherlock would prefer him shouting. Without waiting for an answer, John sighed and asked, "Tea?" Finally, the omnipotent peace broker.

"Yes, please," Sherlock answered (quite politely, he'd thought). He accepted the gesture with only an odd look before making a tactical retreat to the kitchen.

The consulting detective relaxed into Thinking Mode when he heard the domestic tea-making sounds drifting in from the kitchen. Now, the problem at hand: one song; popular, but not a well-known version. Fashionable singer, though controversial. Could be a mood thing, though. Pop can be many things, but a salve for any irritation was not his first thought. He needed more evidence. Drumming on the dark sofa arm, he considered his earlier actions. It would have been wiser to have prepared more questions, like the many now buzzing around in his brain.

As if in response, the borrowed mobile hummed placidly on the wooden table. Cautiously, he checked the doorway only to see John standing there with two steaming cups. He raised an eyebrow and grunted, "Go on, then," before sliding a cup next to the phone.

"Figured anything out yet? I'd *love* to hear your fantastic deductions – ooh, but first, let poor Lestrade in. He looks cold from all that rain! Remember, the next case is interesting...

XxxOoo M"

Sherlock hadn't noticed the rain, but he did hear the reverberations from the knock at the door. John jumped up to get it, muttering about the 'bloody weather'. The observation that it was raining was new and the DI's arrival unexpected, but at least it would provide a useful distraction from his currently obstructive thought patterns. He patiently waited for them to reach his lofty position atop the sofa and drank part of his tea in the meantime.

Lestrade's shoes were lightly damp, but walking any distance in this rain would soak them. Taxi or police car, then. Light jacket, too light, so dressed either in a hurry or absent-mindedly. Well-rested, recent problem. Running a hand through short, greying hair, he addressed the seated man, "We have a case for you. Murder in Farmfoods. Will you take it?"

Sherlock cocked an eyebrow at the phone, then at Lestrade who looked puzzled. Jumping up with a manic grin, he nearly shouted, "Of course! John, grab your coat." His companions, bemused, watched him bound out of the door.


	3. Chapter 3

John knew that Sherlock would not listen to a word he tried to say, not in this mood. The man was practically shimmering with excitement as he dragged every piece of information he could out of DI Lestrade. The case was unusual, certainly.

Young man (to John at least: early twenties) who just got a job in his local Farmfoods; vegetarian, head bashed in at the frozen meat section; found around eight o'clock in the morning but expired several hours' previously, indicating very early morning rather than late evening. No witnesses.

Pierre lived with a flatmate, and there was no partner to speak of. Flatmate, 27-year-old Linda, was at a hen party and arrived home around the time of death so unlikely but not impossible she was involved. The manager Mr. Dailin, who clocked out late the evening before, said he was aware of Pierre's increasing anxiety about something but was pretty sure it was not work-related as he operates a policy of Zero Tolerance towards harassment. And happened to be quite familiar with Pierre himself, who had even attended his sister's wedding. So, overall, he felt capable of saying it was not a work thing.

As they neared the scene, Sherlock inquired about his social situation and parents.

Lestrade answered, "He moved to this part of the country towards the end of studying his bachelor's degree. His parents are in Lancashire; they've been informed about an hour ago."

"Fast work," Sherlock commented drily. "And his friends?"

"Very few, none close. Linda says he never brought anyone 'round, or if he did, it was never when she was there. Nevertheless, we've interviewed all four of the ones we could identify from his sewing club and all of them, to a greater or lesser degree, report increased worrying on Pierre's part about something unnamed."

"Sewing club?" John interjected.

"Why yes, John. Some people tend to have very odd hobbies," Sherlock commented.

Neither of the others thought he was one to talk, sharing a look and remaining silent on the matter. It took several more minutes of being in slow-moving traffic in the dull, thudding rain for them to reach their destination.

The scene was a misleadingly gruesome one. As they walked up the neat, narrow aisle, a hideous smell became more apparent with proximity to the body. It had been there for less than a day and even with the freezer propped open, the decay wasn't fully halted. As DI Lestrade had said earlier, his head was bashed in quite violently; the amount of blood draped across various sealed packages looked like too much for one person.

"He was probably dead after the second blow. It looks like he was repeatedly hit with a blunt object," Sherlock observed.

"Kind of rules out suicide, then," John said. The consulting detective proceeded to look at the corpse from various angles and examine nearby objects.

"We'll have the coroner's report later today, but I think the most obvious cause of death would be the gaping hole in the back of the skull," the DI offered. He received no response more detailed than a grunt. "I'll leave you to it, then." He shrugged and then walked towards the other end of the store and began to talk to another officer.

"So he made someone angry or didn't pay a debt or something?" John asked.

"Likely, but not certain. It may be a red herring that someone murdered a vegetarian in the meat section. Strangling would be more often used in the case of a personal grudge, but for someone to beat him this badly in the head seems impulsive and intent on causing a lot of damage in a short amount of time. Not about a business transaction, or at least not only for that reason; there are much more efficient and less messy ways of killing someone. However, I don't think his assailant meant to kill him, but cause pain and injury."

"By hitting him in the _head_?"

"With something blunt, first thing that came to hand. For example, the bottles of soda on that shelf have been disturbed. See the other shelves, with everything nearly perfectly aligned? First of all, at least one shop assistant here is very proud of their work. Second, someone took a bottle without replacing it and moved the others in haste to make it look like she or he didn't. But something doesn't fit! Why would Pierre not put up a fight where he works in the early hours of the morning if he did not know who his attacker was?"

"My question would be 'what was he doing there in the first place?', but I guess because either he _did_ know them or he didn't see the point in fighting. No history of martial arts training, so he probably knew his chance of winning was low, anyway."

"Hmm, quite." A pause. Sherlock turned brusquely to the shop front, where Lestrade headed, and walked off. So John followed. They approached not the DI but a man John presumed was the manager talking to a married woman in her late twenties. The wedding ring was sturdy and the glittery engagement ring deceptively expensive. "Excuse me, ma'am," Sherlock interrupted. "I'd just like to say I'm sorry for your loss. He was a great friend."

The dark blonde woman's eyes flickered for a brief moment before she replied, "Thank you for your concern; it was so sudden and ghastly. May I ask how you knew him? Only, he didn't have many friends..." Her manner was courteous (she was laying it on thick), and she was suspicious.

"Ahh, I attended the sewing club for a bit. Not too long though, and it was a while back. Got into crocheting instead, you see." The – was that _apologetic?_ - smile he gave her would have been entirely believable if you did not know him. "While I did go, though, we hit it off and kept in touch since then. He's seemed a bit off recently and I came into the city to pay him a visit... I just can't believe what's happened. I'm William, by the way. William Noble." He even prompted her to shake hands.

"Oh. Crocheting? Ah – I'm Sandra Thurrock. My brother here's the manager."

"Robert Dailin, nice to meet you," said the middle-aged man standing slightly off to the side during the previous exchange. "Pierre was a nice lad, always polite and on time for every shift. I'm glad he did have someone like you. To tell the truth, I was starting to get a bit worried about him." Micro-expression of disgust: raised lip, wrinkled nose. Intriguing.

"Well, thank you, sir. I do have to get back and help with the investigation. I hope the rest of your day is better!" After moving away, Sherlock turned to John. "I do hope you noticed his abruptly straightened posture when I mentioned helping with the investigation. I'm going to look around the back rooms for a note or anything. Tell Lestrade what we've found."

John turned to give him A Look but his lanky companion was already two-thirds down the aisle towards a door he hadn't noticed before. Sighing, he went to tap the DI on the shoulder.


	4. Chapter 4

After John had finished outlining what Sherlock had noticed to DI Lestrade, he began to ruminate on why Pierre's corpse smelled so badly after such a short amount of time and the fact that there seemed to be _just_ too much blood from his wound. If he had been there for only a few hours, at absolute most sixteen, he would have had to be in a warm environment to decompose to such an extent that he would reek, which did not chime with the fact that he was found in a freezer and had supposedly been there the whole time since his death. So then either the cooling was shut off for some reason or –

"How far have you gotten?" Sherlock asked, interrupting his thoughts.

"I don't think he was murdered here," John answered.

"Intriguing," he replied, eyes twinkling.

"He's decomposing far too quickly. It's cold in here, which should slow the process down; if the whole refrigeration system was off long enough, the body wouldn't be the only malodorous thing here."

"But..."

"It doesn't work with what you said earlier: the blunt object, first thing to hand, because then the murder weapon wouldn't have been taken from here."

"Adequate, but have you considered the idea I may have mislead you? The murderer could have taken the bottle simply to suggest its use, or actually used it and replaced the bottle after disinfecting it and no one would be any the wiser."

"Except the abnormally tidy shop assistant?"

"Yes, about that... We will look at the interview tapes I am sure they've got of the other employees. And allow me to put to you in the meantime the idea that he was a young student in a city all on his own, of his own choosing, with a relatively distant flatmate, yet his closest relationship is with his boss' sister? No, no, maybe not adultery, don't be droll, but perhaps a relationship stemming from something less palatable, of which Mr. Dailin disapproved. Just a thought, remember, could be nothing." Sherlock ended with one of his small smiles and gestured towards the car.

After watching video recordings of the fifteen other staff members' statements, Sherlock zeroed in on one person in particular, a Ms. Emma Jeffreys. Company files listed her as having 'mild OCD' – her own words. Looking good for his idea of someone to order the shelves, but John failed to see how this would help the investigation. Maybe she noticed any prior incidences of slight irregularity a bit more readily than would be expected, but anything beyond that seemed a bit far-fetched.

Then Sherlock handed him a note when no one else was looking. Of course, the man would be withholding evidence; it is just no fun unless you are risking imprisonment for tampering with a case on which you are supposed to be consulted. John ignored his friend's thinking aloud in favour of reading whatever it was quickly.

"Come tonight at 1:30.

Work.

Alone."

The handwriting was calm and unhurried, as though an outright threat was unnecessary. The author knew where he worked, but obviously not his social preferences. John handed the paper back unobtrusively.

Pierre's death was messy, as head traumas go, but he probably was not killed in the frozen food store. Here was a note implying he came of his own volition, to meet someone around the time of his probable death. The writer was not thinking about killing someone soon, was accustomed to it, or was not there at all and was perfectly innocent. And as Sherlock had hinted at earlier, what could he have been doing with Sandra that had her brother so upset, besides the obvious?

Emma Jeffreys did not have an extra or late shift immediately before the murder, so she would not have any work-related excuse to stay after-hours if indeed she were involved. Unlikely she would be able to return free of suspicion for long enough to kill someone, clean up, and leave unnoticed; however, this would not automatically preclude any knowledge of it on her part.

The pair sauntered into Scotland Yard with the intention of gaining an audience with Ms. Jeffreys, which is exactly what they received. Lestrade called her back, and they had to wait for another twenty minutes due to the traffic. A simple room was freed up, with sofas and an undecorated coffee table. Sherlock took out two pens and laid them precisely on the table, in parallel.

When Emma arrived, John was visibly struck by how innocent she looked, with wide hazel eyes framed by a very precise fringe. Her attire, an asymmetrical and baggy grey t-shirt over ripped jeggings, seemed incongruous with 'mild OCD', though the disorder was not his specialty by any means.

"Umm, hi," she began. Her voice was a bit high. "Why am I back here?"

"I'm afraid we need just a bit more information from you, Ms. Jeffreys," John said, trying to smooth over Sherlock's rather unhelpful silence. "Thank you for agreeing to come in again."

"Emma, please. I've been called Ms. Jeffreys, like, all day and it just reminds me of my mum!" She laughed nervously." Sherlock sneezed suddenly and knocked the table before pulling out a tissue. John had not realized the pens had moved until Emma rearranged them to be in line once more.

"Bless you, er—"

"William, William Noble," he lied easily. Then they shook hands.

"So what more did you guys need to know?"


End file.
